


The Great Formula 1 Bake Off

by mariposaroja



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Christian is definitely the Paul Hollywood, Eventual Twitch Quartet, I have no idea, Multi, Twitch Gang, this wasn't meant to be this long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26793097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariposaroja/pseuds/mariposaroja
Summary: It's lights out and away we dough...Lando Norris would just like to let the record show that he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing here.Like, at all.
Relationships: Alexander Albon & Lando Norris & George Russell, Alexander Albon/George Russell, Susie Wolff/Torger "Toto" Wolff
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	1. Cake Week

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely Inspired by [this](https://tumariposaroja.tumblr.com/post/630715507233996800/f1-drivers-as-great-british-bake-off-contestants) shitpost about F1 Drivers as Bake Off Contestants that I made during the week and was pursuaded by JustLyra to flesh out in fic form.

Lando Norris would just like to let the record show that he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing here.

Like, at all.

In fact, the whole ordeal feels like some kind of elaborate joke, like his friends are going to jump out on him at any moment and admit that they’ve been winding him up. It’s going to happen, no question of it.

Except, it just… doesn’t. And, as he’s directed to his baking station like someone who has just been convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit, he can’t help but come to the realisation that this is actually happening.

Fucking _yikes_.

Just like Lando has seen on his tv screen so many times before, the tent is decorated from top to bottom in soft pastels but looks an awful lot bigger in person. Even with the extra stations they’ve had to squash in. Being the ten year anniversary of the Bake Off, the producers have decided to double the amount of contestants. Which probably explains why they’ve chosen Lando of all people. Really scraping the bottom of the barrel there.

It’s not that he doesn’t like baking. He loves it, really. But there is a vast difference between loving something and being able to carry it off on national— _international_ , even— television. This whole thing was meant to be a bit of a laugh between him and his friends, and yet here he is, pawing at the ridiculous number of buttons on his probably eye-wateringly expensive mixer.

Help.

The other bakers continue to file in from the misty summer rain and Lando just about manages to smile at a couple of them. He’d only arrived at the hotel the previous evening, and there’s been little opportunity since to even begin to get to know any of them. Though, if previous years are anything to go by, they’re probably all sickeningly nice and supportive. Barring any incidents with baked Alaskas, of course.

One of the last guys to enter the tent is directed to the counter that neighbours his, the only duo at the end of a line of six trios. At once, his colleague flashes him a grin, lunging forward to offer his hand to Lando.

“Daniel. Nice to meet you, mate.”

“Lando.”

“Please tell me I’m not the only one who’s absolutely shitting it.”

He probably could, but it would be a complete lie.

As he pulls on his apron, Lando is only vaguely aware of the cameras that are circling the tent, gearing up for the arrival of the judges and hosts. On his workbench lies his chosen ingredients for the signature bake, and he just about resists the urge to check that everything is there. With nothing else to do but wait, Lando looks around at his competition. Even if he hadn’t already known that he’s the youngest of the bunch, he would feel it. Everyone else seems to have at least a couple of inches on him, and he thanks his lucky stars that they’ve stuck him at the back. If things go terribly, he might be able to hide.

After what feels like an eternity, the tent goes quiet and the presenters begin to file in, judges following closely behind them. This has to be when it’s going to happen. His friends are going to show up with the producers and inform them all that there’s been a _terrible_ mistake and that Lando isn’t good enough to take part in the competition, after all.

Any minute now…

“Hello, bakers,” Susie, one of the much loved presenters, begins, “and welcome to the Bake Off tent for your first ever signature challenge.”

“This week, the judges would like you to put your own twist on the simple, yet effective traybake,” says her husband, Toto. Ever since they met and fell in love on the first season of the show, Susie winning and Toto coming in second, they’ve been the sweethearts of the nation. So much so that they were both asked back as presenters about four seasons ago now, after a well-publicised change in personnel.

“You have two hours. On your marks…”

“Get set…”

“ _Bake_.”

Immediately, Lando springs into action in the hope that maybe— just maybe— he can fake it until he bakes it.

As is custom, the judges make their way around the tent to speak to all the contestants. Or perhaps that’s too kind a way of describing the interrogation that they are all in for at some point.

_“What flavours are you using?”_

_“Apple and toffee…”_

_“WHY?”_

_“I DON’T KNOW. I’M SORRY.”_

Should be fun.

With everyone they have to get through, Lando’s sponge is just going into the oven by the time they come to him. If nothing else, he’s doing okay on time. If this were already on tv, he knew that this would be the part when they insert a cute little video of him at home in Bristol, telling the nation all about his life as a half-English, half-Belgian student.

“Good morning, Lando,” Claire smiles at him as she plants her hands on the lip of his workbench, “What have you got for us today?”

Christian merely stares him down. If he hadn’t been sweating before, he certainly is now. “I’m making a toffee apple traybake. A thick toffee sauce on top with an apple and cinnamon sponge.”

Claire’s eyebrows raise and she hums her approval, while Christian purses his lips and nods, giving nothing away as usual.

“Do you by any chance like Halloween?” Susie leans in to ask, which has the desire effect of lightening the mood. Christian urges him to make sure that the apple in the sponge doesn’t make it too soggy, before they leave to pick on Daniel instead.

By the time that the sponge is out of the oven, cooled and slathered with a generous layer of toffee, time is just about up. Lando almost doesn’t believe it as he places his… _mostly_ even squares at the end of his bench and decides that he doesn’t really care if they like them or not.

Except, as Christian takes a bit and gleefully pronounces the flavours very good but the sponge too stodgy, he realises that he really, really does.

Damn.

The rain has cleared up by the time they break after the first challenge. The birds of summer are once again a-chirping, but Lando trudges out to a thankfully dry garden chair with his shoulders slumped. Bloody sponge. The mood with the rest of the contestants is mixed, but one contestant who made it through the first challenge unscathed is Alex, who sinks down in the chair next to Lando’s. The guy is like seven foot, or at least it feels like it to Lando, and stretches out his long legs in front of him.

“Bit depressing to think that’s probably the easiest it’s going to get.”

Lando hadn’t even thought about that, but is glad to hear that he has even more reason to be depressed. Alex, on the other hand, has no right to be down. The judges had literally eaten up his black forest traybake, with Christian— _Christian_ — even going back for seconds. Lando has absolutely no sympathy for him.

In fact, he’s about to tell him as much (he swears he is, Alex’s big doe eyes have absolutely no effect whatsoever on him) when George snatches up the last chair in their little trio, away from the main table where everyone else has congregated.

Alex and George are workbench neighbours, a lot further up the tent. “Afternoon, chaps. What did you think of that?”

“Thought it was all right, yeah,” Alex offers, “but I reckon that they were trying to lure us into a false sense of security. Oh, cheers!” With a grin so bright that it could probably power the tent for at least a couple of hours, Alex takes one of the dark chocolate and honeycomb squares offered to him. Claire in particular had been full of praise for George’s bake, declaring that the sharpness of the dark chocolate contrasted beautifully with the sweet honeycomb.

Almost as an afterthought, George offers one to Lando too, and he soon finds that she had been absolutely right. How depressing. He really thought that he had been on a winner with his toffee apple, wonderfully sticky squares.

“I don’t know what they’re playing at taking twenty of us this year,” says George as he bites into a square of his own, “How hard is it to stand out in a group of twenty people who were all obviously good enough to get here in the first place?”

Jesus christ. “I thought this place was meant to be all warn and fuzzy.” No danger of that with these lot around, anyway.

“It’s our generation,” Alex says, “We can’t have nice things.”

Lando agrees, but also _bloody hell_ …

It’s a relief to hear that the technical challenge this week is chocolate fondants, something Lando has made more times than he can count. That is, until he remembers that the laws of physics work slightly differently in the Bake Off tent, and there is still every chance that this could all go to shit very quickly.

He’s just greasing his moulds when he hears the panic-inducing sound of a metal bowl bouncing on the ground and looks over to find that Daniel is currently wearing a good portion of his batter. His first reaction is sheer horror, but that melds with confusion when— for some unfathomable reason— Daniel throws his head back and… laughs. Like, not even a manic laughter. A proper stomach-clutching chuckle.

It’s so loud that soon the rest of the tent is looking back at them, Susie arching an eyebrow and craning her neck. “Backbenchers, what’s going on down there?”

“Mate, I’m nearly done here. I can give you a hand.” Lando’s batter is just about ready to go into the over, but it’s too early to put it in yet or it will cook the whole way through. Which will probably be worse than serving up half a bowl of raw batter to the judges.

Susie and Toto finally arrive on the scene, the former pressing a hand to her mouth in horror and the latter looking quietly sympathetic. “Oh, Daniel…”

“Cheers, mate, but there’s not much I can do. We’re only given the exact amount of ingredients.” Lando feels stupid for having forgotten that. “I’ve still got a good bit left. I can make this work.”

And, to be fair, he does.

When the time is finally up, Daniel places his six— albeit very small— fondants behind the grinning photo of him on the long table. He looks relatively calm. Lando just can’t understand it.

Pulse thumping in his ears, the judges finally turn their attention to his. He has no idea what’s going to happen when Christian gleefully stabs his creation with a fork, but all he can do is hope that it isn’t cooked completely through, like a couple have been so far.

George and Alex are sat on each side of him, and both give him a little supportive nudge. Alex’s had been— of course— perfectly molten, while George’s had been more than decent in their own right, if a little uneven in size. He’ll take uneven. Uneven he can definitely work with.

“This one is decent enough,” Christian declares, but it might as well be causing him pain, “but it’s just about molten. Could have taken them out a minute earlier.”

If Claire disagrees, she certainly doesn’t say so, spooning some into her mouth. “Tastes very good.”

Christian merely hums before they make their way onto their next victim, being Kevin. Unfortunately for him, things don’t go so well. His fondants— each and every one of them— are cooked the whole way through. Out of the corner of his eye, Lando sees him bristle, looking very much like he wants to give Christian a piece of his mind. But the technical is meant to be judged blind.

That doesn’t stop him rolling his eyes, however, when his are announced as coming last of twenty.

“Is there a problem?” Christian asks, the rest of the tent taking a collective breath as they wait for the response to that one, all silently willing him to keep his mouth shut and not say anything stupid.

He manages to grit his teeth and bite his tongue, but the damage is already done. Lando wants to curl up and die.

“I don’t know why you’re rolling your eyes at me. I’m not the one who put a half-assed attempt at chocolate fondant on the judging table. If you want to stay in this competition, you’re going to have to learn to take some criticism. Man up and move on, or you know where the door is.”

Sebastian comes first, but the whole thing is a bit overshadowed by the lingering tension. Like having to sit silently while a teacher tells off one of your classmates. Lewis comes second, with Max behind him and then Alex, while Lando comes in a respectable eighth. Which, if it had been the usual ten contestants, would have been completely dire. But P8 is definitely okay, and it should put him in a safe enough position as long as he can keep things up for the show-stopper the next day.

No one really says anything on the way back to the hotel, but both Alex and George follow him from the lift to his room without being invited. Lando doesn’t really mind. He’d rather hang with them than sit there all alone and think of the million ways in which tomorrow could go terribly wrong.

“Can you believe that?” Alex says as he drops onto the small couch that the hotel just about managed to squeeze into the room, “It made me so uncomfortable to watch.”

“Christian is a bit of a dick sometimes, but we all knew that when we applied. I bet Kevin is one of the two gone tomorrow, no question.”

Lando won’t be entirely surprised if George is right about that one. He thinks about Daniel, who kinda fucked up massively but still managed to claw back twelfth place. He’d just laughed and got on with things.

This show definitely isn’t good for his blood pressure.

It’s probably a bad idea to get attached to people that could be gone from his life tomorrow (although unlikely), but the dynamic between the three of them is pretty great, Lando realises when they head to Pizza Express together that evening. At some point, the conversation turns to how they all got there in the first place.

“I rapped,” Alex bashfully admits and Lando laughs, never for a moment believing that that was actually the case.

Unfortunately, he’s wrong. Very wrong.

Even George, who Lando’s pretty sure has been making heart eyes at Alex since they stepped foot inside the tent, makes a face. Lando concurs. Of all the people in the tent he would have expected to _rap_ their way into the Bake Off, Alex is probably bottom of that list.

Well, perhaps maybe except Kimi.

“I’m embarrassed for you.”

“Why are you embarrassed for me? I’m here, am I not?” He makes a hoovering sound with his straw as he finishes his coke.

Lando nods. “Kneading dough and living the dream.”

“How did you get here, then? If you’re too good for rapping.”

“Did a PowerPoint presentation, didn’t I?”

Lando thinks Alex might actually be about to combust. “A _PowerPoint presentation_? Jesus Christ. And you have the audacity to give me rubbish.”

“It’s tried and tested, mate. The facts speak for themselves.”

“What _facts_? You’re baking _tart tatin_ in your mum’s kitchen on a Saturday afternoon after footie practice.”

It’s in that moment that Lando decides that he’s going to do all he can to stay in this competition. Because he’s pretty sure that these guys are his platonic soulmates.

“What about you?” George finally asks, obviously unable to refute Alex’s point because— well— it’s true. “How did you end up here?”

“Oh. My mates signed me up.”

“ _That_ old one.”

“It’s true! I was proper rubbish in my interview too. Bet they only chose me as canon fodder.”

“Well,” Alex takes a bite of his pizza, “you’ll have to just prove them wrong then, won’t you?”

“Yeah. But preferably do it tomorrow, before you they toss you out on your arse.”

As directed, they all try their best to look contemplative and grave when the judges announce that for the show-stopper this week they will be required to make a four-tier wedding cake. As if they haven’t been forewarned about this for about two weeks at this stage. Admittedly, the notice doesn’t make it any less nerve-wracking. Having twenty of them make a four-tiered wedding cake in the first week could be classed by some as a human rights violation.

The good thing is, Lando really enjoys wedding cake. Both to eat and as a concept. Or at least he still thinks he does, even if it’s a bit touch-and-go after all his not so successful attempts in the lead up to filming. There’s something about them, all pretty and elegant on the outside but a melody of fun flavours on the inside, that just appeals to him.

The judges and presenters, of course, come to check in on him at the most inopportune time, like waiters in a restaurant. Except instead of having his mouth full, he’s up to his eyes in batter and fondant.

“Good morning, Lando,” says Claire, “Tell us about your wedding cake.”

“I’m— perhaps unwisely— making a different flavour sponge for each tier. My bottom layer is going to be chocolate with a fudge ganache, then a red velvet with cream cheese icing, then a Madagascan vanilla sponge with pear and vanilla buttercream, all topped of with a very zesty and refreshing lemon drizzle.”

“And how will you be decorating your cake?”

“I’m going for a classic white fondant to start, then hopefully I’m going to do a bit of gradient spray painting, time permitting, as well as some sugar flowers.”

When Christian asks whether he thinks he will be able to finish it all in time, Lando replies with a falsely positive ‘hopefully’ and they move along to bother someone else instead.

At one point, Lando looks up from where he’s painstakingly extracting his various sponges from their respective tins only to see that Lewis’ cake has already been erected. And… it’s like at least three feet tall. The brief had said that their cakes had to have _at least_ four layers, but now he was beginning to kick himself for not going for at least five or six. A quick glance around shows him that most of the tent has gone for five, but Lando reckons that there’s no point lamenting over his lack of an extra tier when he isn’t even sure that he’s going to have enough time to finish the four he’s already planned.

 _‘To finish first, you first have to finish’_ and all that…

A rather indignant cry of ‘ _George!_ ’ from Alex causes his ears to prick up, but Lando knows he hasn’t got enough time to look away from his delicately moulded buttercups for even a second to see what exactly is going on with his new friends.

It’s like two hundred degrees in this bloody tent (unsurprising, perhaps, given that there has been twenty ovens on the go for the past four hours, in addition to all the lighting) and Lando is vaguely aware that Daniel is watching him, having finished his creation ridiculously early, but he ploughs on. Though his fingers become clumsy with the jitters of the last couple of minutes falling away, he’s pretty sure that he’s just going to make this.

‘Just’ being the key word. Lando has just finished affixing the last flower to his cake when Toto announces that time is up, and they must all step away from their bakes. Triumphantly, he does so, a little high on a mixture of adrenaline and the sugar vapours he’s been inhaling for the past four hours. Already, it’s clear that not all the bakers were as fortunate as he. Antonio, who had opted for a Swiss meringue lilac icing, had obviously not had enough time to allow his cakes to cool before decorating as his Victoria sponges are slightly stained, while the melted icing pools in a purple mess at the bottom of his stand. Lando is overcome with secondhand anxiety. It’s not even enough to pass off as a semi-naked cake, which a couple of the bakers have opted for.

Sebastian is first to present his cake to the judges, a beautifully minimalistic four tier with buttercream icing so smooth that Michelangelo probably would have been proud of it. As Claire cuts into it, Lando is surprised to find that each layer is a different shade of pastel. As well as being aesthetically pleasing, it’s well baked and flavoursome, and Seb returns to his bench quietly pleased and undoubtedly safe.

Lewis is next and… well, the less said about his cake the better for all of them.

Carlos, Pierre and Sergio all survive the scrutiny of the judges and are sure to live to bake another day before Alex presents his duck egg blue and gold leaf creation that probably should be whisked away to the nearest art gallery. Immediately. Claire isn’t entirely convinced by the pomegranate jam, but they’re clutching at straws and Lando sees George fistbump him on the way back.

Charles goes after Alex and before George, and both fair okay as well. Lando is starting to get nervous. The law of averages is beginning to stack against him more and more with each satisfied baker.

Unfortunately for Antonio, Nicky comes two bakers ahead of him, having perfectly executed precisely what he had been intended to before it all went pear-shaped. It’s certainly not looking good for him. Then Christian and Kevin share a terse exchange of words that has the rest of the tent, including Claire and the Wolffs, holding their breath. Christian tells him that his sponge is underbaked and unable to bear the weight of the heavier chocolate fudge tier above it and Kevin manages to refrain from punching him, which is always a good thing.

Daniel’s rather unusual black and gold wedding cake impresses the judges before Lando is being prompted to present his bake. The last man standing.

“It’s very… yellow,” says Christian, eyebrows raised as Lando sets it down in front of them.

“I like it. It reminds me of a sunrise.”

“There’s not much harmony between the colours when you cut in. But that shouldn’t really matter too much as long as it tastes good...” A pause that last approximately fifteen years as they try a small piece of each tier. “I’m not getting the pear. And to be honest, I’m not sure that it would add much to the vanilla anyway.”

Claire agrees. “I would have liked something a little bit tart to cut through the sweetness, but I think the other layers are quite delicious. The lemon drizzle is really refreshing. It was clever to put that as the top tier as a bit of palette cleanser.”

Christian looks up at him and, after a heart stopping moment, smiles. “Overall, a very good bake. But next time you might consider making it a little less… gaudy.”

Lando doesn’t really pay attention to anything in that sentence except ‘next time’. Surely that means that he has done enough to see himself through to next week?

When it’s announced that the judges will be excusing themselves to deliberate, Lando makes a beeline for where Alex and George are already congregated around Alex’s bake. George has decided to forego a cake slice and plate and is just attacking it directly with a fork.

“George! You’re so uncivilised!”

Lando quickly joins in and Alex sighs before stabbing a chunk himself. “I think the pomegranate jam is excellent,” a couple of crumbs fly out of his mouth as he chews, “You might be in for star baker this week.”

Alex immediately shushes him, as if he’s just spoken some kind of taboo.

They make good work of both his and George’s cake, discussing everything but the potential elimination, before Claire, Christian, Susie and Toto file back into the tent. Their expressions give absolutely nothing away.

After a couple of agonising minutes, Lewis is announced by Susie as star baker before Toto informs them that Antonio and Kevin will be leaving the tent this week.

And that’s that. The rest of them breathe a sigh of relief before they take turns congratulating Lewis and commiserating with Antonio and Kevin, who seems eager to leave this whole experience behind him. Lando feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. That is until he realises that he’s going to have to go through this all again next week.

Who ever said that baking is fun?


	2. Biscuit Week

Having business to attend to that definitely does not involve trying to source last minute ingredients, George arrives at the hotel a little after eight on Friday night. Though it’s still bright, there’s a definite chill to the air and he regrets not bringing a jacket the minute he steps outside the car, throwing his overnight bag over his shoulder and walking briskly towards the lobby. He fires off a text and by the time he’s gotten his key from the front desk and called for the lift, he has a reply.

Lando: Just finishing up with dinner. Meet you at yours in a few?

George shoots back his room number as the doors lethargically trundle shut and the lift rises towards the fifth floor, his stop. Since he’d known that he would be late for dinner, he’d come via McDonald’s drive-thru. But it’s still disappointing to miss out on catching up with the boys.

Pushing the heavy fire door open with his shoulder, George does a little pirouette inside, pausing to deposit his key card in the holder on the wall. Probably due to the heat earlier on, a window has been left open and he curses under his breath before unceremoniously dropping his bag and moving to close it. One of the most annoying things about him, he’s been told, is that he’s perpetually cold. After a couple of wasted minutes fiddling with the thermostat (do they ever really work?), George finally decides to just put on something warmer and— of bloody course— he’s just taken off his button down when there’s an impatient knock on the door.

“Good _ev_ …ening,” says Lando, eyebrows raising, “I see you’ve gotten started without us.”

Rolling his eyes, George beckons them inside, flashing Alex a smile before fishing a soft navy top out of his bag and quickly pulling it over his head.

“George, mate. You’re ripped.”

“I don’t know why you sound so surprised,” he says, but delays in turning back to face his friends for a couple of seconds to allow his slight blush time to subside. Alex is rather silent on the matter, and George briefly wonders if he’s already seen the pictures of him in the gym on his Instagram. Not that it made his day when he got the notification on Tuesday to say that he was now following him…

“Perhaps it’s because you’re always stuffing your mouth?” Alex finally offers, lingering awkwardly even as Lando throws himself down not on the spare single bed, but on George’s double. It’s only then that George spots the bottle his fingers are tightly curled around.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“What else are we going to do? Play truth or dare? It’s just two bottles between the three of us.”

And sure enough, Alex is clutching another. George still cannot see how this can possibly go well. “We don’t even have glasses!”

Which is how he and Alex end up drinking white wine from those small glasses they leave next to the bathroom sink while Lando volunteers to take one of the small coffee cups next to the kettle. Perhaps not unexpectedly, it leads to them drinking two entire bottles of wine like shots.

Despite his size, Alex is the first to get tipsy and George is sure that it’s having no effect whatsoever on him until it suddenly, definitely is. At some point, he ends up slumped alongside Lando on the double bed. All six-foot-one of Alex takes the single, except for some reason he’s lying on his back across its width, head hanging over the edge and socked feet resting against the wall.

“Now,” he says, “would be a great time for you to spill your secrets about what you’re making this weekend.”

“I knew it!” says George, propping himself up on his elbow, “You two are conspiring to get me drunk so I’ll spill my guts and you can beat me.”

“Bold of you to assume that we aren’t going to beat you anyway,” Alex says.

“Bold of you to assume that you aren’t already the most transparent person on the face of the earth,” Lando says.

Okay, there is every chance that the first one might be true, but George is just about to question the second before deciding that now probably isn’t the best time. He doesn’t know if he’s drunk enough for that conversation, especially if Lando is insinuating what he thinks he is.

“Midori.”

“Mi—what?”

“Midori,” George repeats, “I was late because I dropped the bottle I was going to bring while I was packing the car and had to drive around for ages trying to find somewhere that had it.”

Almost falling off the bed in an attempt to turn around, Alex finally manages to look at him, eyes wide. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re putting melon liquor in your _biscuits_?”

“I know it sounds odd, but it works. I promise.”

There’s a moment of silence as the other two seem to contemplate how that might actually be incorporated (for him to know and them to find out) before Lando appears to have an epiphany, bolting upright. “You don’t need the whole bottle, do you?”

It’s a miracle that they actually make it to the bus the next morning. It was certainly touch and go there for a while, especially when Lando got up from the bed he’d ended up sharing with George to go to the bathroom and, after a minute or two, the shower turned on.

Up on his feet so quickly that the Midori threatened to make a reappearance, George banged on the bathroom door. “If you want to shower then piss off back to your own room! I already let you sleep in my bed, you’re not moving in.”

To be fair, it wasn’t so much a decision as— at some point during the night— them all passing out. When George’s alarm finally went off (thank god for small mercies), Alex was asleep on the floor, contorted into an unnatural position and cheek with the imprint of the carpet.

“You can’t sleep with me and then throw me out!” Lando had called back, but at least the water cut out.

Even if he weren’t in such a delicate state, George would still feel like murdering him.

He charges Lando with escorting Alex back to his room on the way back to his own, but they’re still running very tight on time and, as soon as George is showered, dressed, and hopefully smelling a lot less like melon, he takes it upon himself to see if he can charm the restaurant into making them a couple of bacon butties to go.

“This is so unprofessional,” Alex laments as he slides into the window seat behind George’s but grabs the foil package offered to him and hands over a can of Coke Zero in return.

“Excuse me, I’m not the one who showed up to your room armed for a session.”

“You’re the one who supplied the Midori! That did the most damage.”

Out of the corner of his eye, George sees Lewis give them the side eye, especially when Lando actually gags, pressing a fist against his mouth. He shoots him a look that says ‘don’t ask, mate.’

“I think we’ve established that we’ve got three braincells between us, okay?” George wants to argue that, if that’s the case, they only belong to him and Alex. “Now can we please not mention the ‘m’ word or this bus is going to be evacuated very quickly…”

Getting drunk in a hotel room the night before filing is a mistake that, given the opportunity, they certainly will not be making again. But, despite the fact that he would love nothing more than to curl up in a ball and die, there’s little George can do now except crack on with it and he settles into his work station once more. He still feels a little bit bad that Lando is down at the back still, even if he has been bumped up to the second last row after last week’s departures, but perhaps it’s in everyone’s interests if they remain separated.

For the signature challenge this week, they’re tasked with producing thirty six iced biscuits of any shape or form and George has opted for a classic ginger nut biscuit, shaped and decorated as an assortment of Christmas trees, wrapped presents and baubles. Because why not? Who cares if it’s the middle of July and approximately twenty degrees? Summer’s practically over at this stage, anyway.

To his left, Alex has an arsenal of specially designed cookie cutters for his undoubtedly beautifully decorated Thailand inspired biscuits, while to his right Charles seems to be cutting out thirty six pumpkin and skull shaped biscuits.

Perhaps he gets a little too excited… “Mate! We match.”

Looking up, Charles appears shocked that someone is actually speaking to him. “Pardon?”

“You’re doing Halloween biscuits, I’m doing Christmas.” Something else occurs to him. “Lando is doing his Lambos, which is spring. Which means that Alex is letting the side down.”

“Oh, yes. I feel stupid now for not doing suns wearing sunglasses and unicorn pool floats instead of paying homage to my ancestry.”

“I mean, technically you could still be summer. Where do you go on your holidays? To Thailand.”

“George…” Alex sighs and shakes his head, “Have you ever even been?”

Admittedly not, but it has recently become one of his new life goals to go there with Alex, though he’s still working on it…

Biscuits in the oven and icing mixed and ready to go, George heads to the back of the tent to make himself a cup of tea instead of standing around waiting for his timer to go off. Lando is just putting his into the oven as he’s passing and he leans in to sneak a peek.

“How are the Lambos doing?” They don’t very much resemble sheep as it is, but one can only hope that will change once they’re iced. Lando has gone for the steady shortcake as his base.

“All right, yeah. Made a couple extra just in case.”

“You see, I didn’t. Which I probably should have now that I think about it. Alex has made like fifty, it’s ridiculous.”

“If I didn’t like him so much I’d say that he’s a pain in the arse,” says Lando with a roll of his eyes, before quirking an eyebrow and tossing a smirk George’s way. “You’re not going to fight me for saying that, are you?”

“Fuck off, Norris.”

“Aw, no. It’s really sweat, I promise you. But, despite your absolute lack of subtlety, I don’t think he has a clue. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you need to get a little more direct. We’ll be wrapped and everything by the time the penny drops at the rate you’re going.”

Susie eyes them suspiciously and George merely grimaces and heads for the kettle the minute she starts making her way towards Lando’s workbench. As much as it pains him to admit, he knows Lando is right. He hasn’t been any way subtle about showing his interest in Alex, which either means that he’s not interested and is too afraid to say, or else he genuinely hasn’t noticed.

He’s more inclined to go with the latter, but Alex seems like the kind to never dare to assume that anyone likes him unless expressly told so. And maybe it won’t hurt to try a little bit harder and see where it might take him.

Starting now.

He makes two mugs of tea before carefully navigating the obstacles on the way back to Alex’s bench. His biscuits have just come out of the oven, or a portion of them at least, and are spread all over the countertop to cool.

“Thought you might be in need…”

Looking up in surprise, he’s rewarded with one of Alex’s most lovely smiles (he has come up with a definitive ranking) as he awkwardly accepts the mug so that neither of them get burnt. George never really had a chance. “Cheers. You must have read my mind.”

Oh, how he wishes. But because being born British only comes with the ‘basic emotions’ package, George changes the subject completely. “How’s the hangover going?”

“It’s funny what wonders intense pressure and baking can do for a sore head. My usual approach is to take to the couch and let my mum take care of me like I’m on my last legs.”

“Bit of a mummy’s boy, then?”

“Oh, completely.”

“Yeah, me too. I’m the youngest, so…”

“I’m not at all. But mum has a lot of love to give, and not just to us. We have a bunch of cats, as well as a dog and a pony. It gets crazy sometimes, but it’s great.”

“Sounds it,” George grins back, almost forgetting why he’s even in the tent in the first place. Perhaps if he gets kicked out they’ll allow him to stick around as Alex’s emotional support Russell? “I love animals.” While it’s not exactly a lie, per se, it might be a bit of an exaggeration. Although he likes animals, he’s never really had much to do with them. But he will happily knit mittens for each of Alex’s cats if it comes down to it.

“You should come visit sometime, see for yourself.”

It’s all George can do to keep from looking up to the heavens and expressing his gratitude. Fucking _result_. Of course, like the idiot he is, he tries too hard to play it cool by leaning casually on Alex’s bench, soul departing his body when he feels a definitive crunch beneath his elbow. While he remains frozen in place, Alex frowns and looks around for the source of the odd sound before the penny finally drops. In time with his jaw.

George is already backing slowly away, but it’s too late.

“GEORGE. MY BISCUITS.”

“I’m sorry! I’m really, really sorry!” He keeps going until the lip of his own bench bumps against the small of his back. This was _not_ part of the plan.

“You are _so_ lucky that I made extra, George. So lucky.”

Lando’s laugh can be heard all the way from the back of the tent, and George can only scowl as his timer goes off and he moves to take his own biscuits out of the oven. It had been going so well. Life just isn’t fair.

Looking rather smug, Susie sidles up to him and pats him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should focus on your baking so that you’re actually here next week to continue to fail at flirting with him.”

Harsh, he can’t help but think. But also probably correct.

Thankfully, the judges love Alex’s beautifully iced rose and vanilla biscuits and, by the time they break before the next challenge, the whole incident seems to have been forgotten. George’s own biscuits had been lovely to look at, but he had been a little heavy handed with the ginger, which Claire and Christian weren’t too fond of. The Lambos had gone down a treat, as had Charles’ pumpkin spiced Halloween shortbreads, whole Daniel had left in for far too long and nearly ended up breaking one of Claire’s teeth. Overall, Romain’s exquisite Eifel Towers stole the show, putting him in the driving seat heading into the remaining two challenges.

When it was announced that the technical this week would be Claire’s teacake recipe, George’s stomach hit the floor. Teacakes were something you bought, perfectly shaped and wrapped in foil. No right thinking person should dare to take such perfection into their own hands. But, as protesting is unlikely to get him anywhere, he supposes he’ll just have to crack on with it.

At least he’ll be in a better position than Charles.

When the brief had been announced and everyone sprang to action, he had continued to look around at his colleagues for a moment before finally turning to George across from him and saying, ‘what is a teacake?’

It seems like everyone within a two-bench radius stops what they’re doing.

“You’ve never had a teacake?”

“I do not think so. What do they look like?”

George begins to open his mouth, but shuts it firmly once more. How does one describe a teacake to someone who has never seen a teacake before? He’s probably not the right person to be doing this but, nevertheless, grabs the pencil that Alex keeps on his worktop and snatches Charles’ copy of the very primitive recipe. Aware time is ticking for the both of them, he draws a very crude but hopefully effective illustration, complete with labels to show what goes where.

“Got it?”

“I think so. I really appreciate this, George.”

“Don’t thank me yet, it might still be a disaster.”

Which, as luck would have it, turns out to be quite accurate. The complexity of assembly along with the heat in the tent does not lend itself to success. Marshmallow domes are sliding off melted chocolate left, right, and centre and there is a clambering for freezer space, the likes of which has not been seen since the great baked Alaska incident of 2014.

In the end, for most it’s a matter of damage control. Even Alex, who looks seconds away from bursting into tears as he places his less-than-perfect teacakes behind his photo, chocolate smeared across his face. George grabs a tea towel and wipes it off for him before they’re forced to face the judges.

Funnily enough, Charles’ look better than most of the tents’ combined and George cannot help but appreciate the irony as he looks at his own lopsided creation.

Some of the efforts (Pierre, Romain, again, and Valtteri) stand head and shoulders above the rest, while others (Daniil, Esteban, and Kimi) could probably not even be classed as baking, never mind anything resembling a tea cake. The rest of them fall at varying degrees of the success scale.

In the end, George comes ninth, which he will take but can’t deny that he’s beginning to sweat. If he doesn’t really pull off his showstopper tomorrow, it could very well be the end of the line for him. And right now that’s not something that he can even allow himself to think about.

In more ways than one, it’s been a tough day. None of them are in much of a mood to do anything but head back to their own rooms, order room service, and at least try to get some sleep.

The showstopper challenge this week is to make an ornate biscuit box in which to hold thirty assorted and delicious biscuits. Being a masochist, George has probably bitten off more than he can chew by making the music box from Anastasia, full to the brim with jade (where the Midori comes in) and ruby flower biscuits. Upon packing the bottle of liquor before leaving the hotel that morning, he couldn’t help but wince. He had been sure there had been more left than just _that_.

Before he’s even turned on his oven, George is regretting his decision. Most of the bakers have opted for a square or rectangular box— easier to assemble and less likely to go catastrophically. Because he’s chosen a rounded container, they whole thing has to be moulded and baked as one piece and if it goes wrong, he’s completely fucked.

But if he can pull it off… there’s no way he won’t make it through to next week. At this point, it’s a gamble he’s going to have to make.

Alex is making a nineteenth century Chinese jewellery box, so at least he knows he’s in good company.

More so than any other challenge so far, the mood in the tent is fraught. So much so that Susie and Toto have taking to tiptoeing around, probably afraid to invoke the wrath of any stressed bakers. They certainly give Max’s station a wide berth— despite greasing his tin extensively, his fist round of biscuits have welded, all but a single one of them breaking as he tries to prise them off. George is sure that the profanities can be heard all the way in Milton Keynes.

“Your all right, mate?”

Snapping out of his trance (dissociative state), he looks over at Alex, who seems to be playing the same waiting game. Their most important parts are in the oven, so they’ll know fairly soon how much of a disaster this afternoon is going to be.

“Yeah, good. You?”

“Yet to be determined, but I reckon so. Or at least I’m hoping so.”

“That bottle is looking quite empty,” Toto suddenly appears, eyeing him suspiciously. Alex, coward he is, conveniently chooses that moment to go make a cup of tea, leaving George to do the only thing he can think of.

“You should ask Lando about that.”

Toto does, and mere seconds later George hears from somewhere towards the back of the tent, ‘You’re a dickhead, Russell. You know that?’

“Don’t break, don’t break, don’t break…”

To be fair, it doesn’t. But the rounded bottom of his music box is showing a threatening couple of hairline fractures. All George can do now is ice it and hope to god that’s enough to keep everything cemented in place. Such is pre-occupation that he manages to burn one of his trays of biscuits, thankfully having the foresight to make extra dough in case of emergency. The rest of time passes as if it were a mere couple of minutes, and there’s not one inch of him that isn’t covered in icing or flour or both but George just about manages to get everything finished, making sure that the least attractive of his biscuits are hidden away at the bottom.

It might taste like shit, but it looks amazing and George preens when both Alex and Charles gather around to gaze (adoringly) at his creation. In that moment, he doesn’t care what he judges think. He’s a proud father.

Charles’ jack in the box inspired bake impresses the judges before the gang move on to him. For an agonising moment, Christian looks at his biscuit box, expression entirely unreadable, and then up to George before finally cracking a small.

“That… is stunning.” 

“George,” Claire says, shaking her head in disbelief, “You’ve been holding back on us.”

“It’s a shame that we’re going to have to break it,” Christian says, but George just knows that he takes pleasure in it. He contemplates averting his eyes as Christian breaks off a chunk of his baby and shoves it in his mouth. “I’m glad you pulled back on the ginger a bit after yesterday. That is a much better biscuit. I suppose we’ll try the smaller ones…”

“They’re so beautifully decorated. I had no idea you had such a delicate touch.”

“I don’t know what in the world possessed you to use melon liquor in your biscuits, but it actually works, much to my astonishment.”

Humming with pleasure, Claire winks at him. “You can really taste the liquor, but it’s not overpowering, and it really ties in with the colour and decoration of the biscuits. Well done.”

George accepts their praise with decorum, but it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to just collapse on the floor out of sheer relief when they finally move on to Alex, the massacred remains of his greatest creation abandoned.

“You want to try one?” he asks Lando, who had been edging around his work station like a curious dog when the judges have excused themselves to deliberate.

“Of course I don’t want to try one. I might have, if I didn’t still have residual alcohol poisoning.” George can’t help but laugh. “I’m just looking, thank you.”

Charles takes that as an invitation to snatch up another one, followed a couple of tentative seconds later by Alex. The air between the four of them is peculiar, each thinking— hoping—that they have done enough to see them through to next week, but none daring to say as much.

After approximately three days of waiting, it’s finally announced that Sebastian is star baker, while Daniil and Kimi will be leaving them for good.

And that’s it. The dreaded biscuit week is finally over, and they all survived it. Now just onto…

Bread week.

Well, George thinks, it was fun while it lasted.


End file.
